Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation

One important foundation of Buddhist ethics is a commitment to nonviolence. My aim in this paper is to work out the implications of this commitment with regard to the treatment of offenders. Given that punishment involves the intentional infliction of harm, I argue that the practice of punishment is incompatible with the principle of nonviolence. The core moral teaching of the Buddha is to conquer evil with goodness, and it is reconciliation, rather than punishment, that conforms to this teaching. I argue that a commitment to nonviolence requires not only that we refrain from inflicting intentional harm, but that we refrain from inflicting unnecessary harm, and that this has important implications concerning the practice of incapacitation. I analyze the concept of harm and argue that the Buddhist understanding of this notion leads to the conclusion that none of the standard justifica1 Arts and Philosophy Department, Miami Dade College (Kendall Campus). Email: [email protected]. 371 Journal of Buddhist Ethics tions for punishment are compatible with the principle of nonviolence, properly understood. As it is commonly interpreted, the first precept of Buddhism involves a commitment to nonviolence (ahiṃsā). This is understood, first and foremost, as a commitment not to kill any sentient being intentionally. But it is also understood, more broadly, as a commitment not to harm any sentient being intentionally, and it is this broader understanding of nonviolence that is crucial to appreciating the implications of the first precept with regard to the treatment of offenders. Given that punishment involves the intentional infliction of harm, it follows that punishment is incompatible with the first precept. I develop this argument in what follows and try to show that reconciliation, as an alternative to punishment, best captures the Buddhist spirit of nonviolence. Alternatives to Punishment Punishment involves the infliction of harm—typically, some form of suffering. This by itself is morally problematic, but what renders punishment especially problematic is that it involves the intentional infliction of harm. The retributivist, for example, believes that offenders should be punished simply because they deserve to suffer, as an end in itself. Whether punishment is an effective means to crime reduction is, for the retributivist, beside the point. The deterrentist believes that offenders 2 The first precept is a vow never to kill any sentient being: Pāṇātipātā veramaṇī sikkhāpadaṃ samādiyāmi. It is commonly understood as a commitment to nonviolence. Intentionally killing a sentient being breaks the precept; intentionally harming one, we might say, fractures it (cf. Harvey Ethics 69). 3 For a thorough defense of the claim that punishment involves the intentional infliction of harm, see Boonin (12-17). For a full analysis of the concept of punishment, which I do not give here, see Boonin (Ch. 1) or Zimmerman (Ch. 1). Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 372 should be punished as a means to an end: either to deter them from repeating their criminal offenses (specific deterrence) or to deter the public from criminal behavior (general deterrence). In either case, the thinking is that offenders should be made to suffer, deliberately, for their crimes. With this in mind, it is clear that punishment should be distinguished from the following practices, which are sometimes employed, if not as alternatives, at least as supplements to punishment: (1) Incapacitation. Offenders are “incapacitated” when they are prevented from repeating their criminal offences. This may involve incarceration, but there are other methods of incapacitation, depending upon the nature of the offense. Drunk drivers can be incapacitated simply by having their automobiles impounded. Sex offenders can be incapacitated through the use of anti-androgen drugs. Electronic surveillance, such as ankle monitoring, is an alternative to incarceration for a wide range of offenses. Regardless of the method employed, incapacitation is not a form of punishment because, even if offenders suffer from the restrictions imposed upon them, the aim in imposing these restrictions is not to make them suffer but rather to protect the public. The harm done, if any, is an unintended side effect. (For comparison, patients with infectious diseases are sometimes quarantined, but to isolate patients from the public is not to punish them, because the aim in quarantining patients is not to make them suffer but rather to protect the public. Institutionalizing the criminally insane does not count as punishment for the same reason.) (2) Restitution. Unlike fines, enforced restitution is not intended to make offenders suffer but rather to repair or “make whole” the victims 373 Journal of Buddhist Ethics of crime. For this reason, restitution, like incapacitation, is not a form of punishment. (3) Rehabilitation. Rehabilitation differs from punishment because the aim of rehabilitation is not to harm offenders but rather to correct their criminal tendencies and reduce recidivism. Far from harming them, rehabilitation, if successful, benefits offenders by improving their character. (Later, however, I will distinguish between punitive and nonpunitive rehabilitation because there are those who believe that punishment, or even “eye for an eye” retribution can serve as a rehabilitative method.) (4) Reconciliation. If you and I are friends, and I have wronged you in some way, there are steps I can take to earn your forgiveness and restore trust in our relationship. Even if a society consists largely of strangers, it is nonetheless a cooperative arrangement based on trust, and crime represents a violation of trust. If I have committed a crime, there are steps I can take to earn forgiveness, restore trust, and recapture my good standing in society. This is what is meant by “reconciliation.” Reconciliation differs from punishment because the aim of reconciliation is not to harm offenders but rather to restore the bonds of trust that hold society together. For this reason, reconciliation is sometimes referred to as “restorative” (as opposed to “retributive”) justice. But are these practices truly non-punitive? Incapacitation, in particular, is not uncommonly classified as a punishment (or as a rationale for punishment). This is understandable. To harm people is to make them worse off than they would have been otherwise, at least in the short run. And one way to make people worse off is to deprive them of 4 Aside from the good done for the victims of crime, Boonin (264-267) argues that enforced restitution can serve as an effective method of criminal deterrence. 5 For a compact introduction to restorative justice by one of the founders of the movement, see Zehr. For a discussion of restorative justice from a Buddhist perspective, see Loy. For discussion from an interfaith perspective, see Magnani and Harmon. Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 374 their freedom. If offenders are incapacitated, they are intentionally deprived of their freedom (or, at least, of their full range of freedom) and are hence intentionally harmed. How, then, is incapacitation not a form of punishment? In responding to this, some clarification is needed. For a form of treatment to count as punishment, it must not only be harmful, it must be intended as harm; it is in this sense that punishment involves the intentional infliction of harm. It is true that when offenders are incapacitated, something harmful is intentionally done to them (insofar as depriving people of their freedom is harmful). But this is also true when patients with infectious diseases are quarantined to protect the public, yet this does not count as punishment. Even if patients suffer from their social isolation, this is unintended. The harm done, if any, has nothing to do with protecting the public. In the same way, when offenders are incarcerated to protect the public, the emotional suffering they endure has nothing to do with achieving this goal. Although incarceration is harmful, it is not intended as harm. Contrast this with the practice of deterrence. When offenders are incarcerated to deter crime, the emotional suffering they endure is a necessary feature of the practice; otherwise, incarceration would not be an effective method of deterrence. In this case, incarceration is not only harmful, it is intended as a harm. Similar comments apply to the other practices mentioned above, which are sometimes, mistakenly, considered punitive. What are the ethical implications of the first precept with regard to the treatment of offenders? Does this principle necessarily rule out punishment? To answers these questions, we must situate the principle of nonviolence within the context of Buddhist ethics and clarify what it means to “harm” someone in the relevant sense. 375 Journal of Buddhist Ethics Buddhist Ethics and the Principle of Nonviolence The Buddha’s moral message is simple, but powerful. “Overcome anger by peacefulness: overcome evil by good. Overcome the mean by generosity; and the man who lies by truth” (Dhammapada 223). In following the Buddhist path, one employs this strategy to uproot the three mental defilements (kleśas): greed, aversion, and delusion. To uproot greed, one practices generosity. To uproot aversion, one practices loving-kindness. To uproot delusion, one studies the Dharma. In essence, Buddhist morality is simply an extension of this strategy for self-purification to one’s dealings with others. On the negative side, this means that one should refrain from actions that arise from unwholesome states of mind—that is, from greed, aversion, or delusion. On the positive side, it means that one should base one’s conduct, in word or deed, on wholesome states of mind—the contraries of the three kleśas. Ideally, all of one’s actions are traceable back to the underlying desire to promote the good of others and to alleviate their suffering. It is not entirely clear how to categorize Buddhist ethics, or even whether it can be categorized, but there is something approaching a consensus among scholars that Buddhist ethics is best understood as a type of virtue ethics (cf. Keown Ecology). Whether or not it fits the Aris6 Generally speaking, scholars are divided on whether Buddhist ethics should be interpreted as a form of virtue ethics or as a version of consequentialism. Yet, in Damien Keown’s opinion, “there is a growing consensus among scholars . . . that Buddhist ethics bears a greater resemblance to virtue ethics than to any other Western theory” (Ethics 25). Of course, there are arguments on both sides of the controversy. Charles Goodman has recently mounted an impressive defense of the consequentialist interpretative model. We might note, however, that the model defended by Goodman borrows key elements from virtue ethics. Specifically, Goodman defends “character consequentialism,” which takes virtue to be among the intrinsic goods that moral conduct seeks to promote. “Since . . . Buddhists consider character traits to be intrinsically morally important,” he writes, “they will regard effects on character as among the more important consequences of our actions” (187). Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 376 totelian mold, Buddhist ethics is certainly inward-looking in its approach to morality. Moral questions are settled, not by considering one’s actions from an external point of view, but by examining one’s underlying motives and intentions. Good, wholesome, or skillful actions (kaśula karmas) are those that manifest or reinforce wholesome states of mind; bad, unwholesome, or unskillful actions (akaśula karmas) are those that manifest or reinforce unwholesome states of mind. Love and compassion, obviously, are good motives. Hatred, envy, greed, and pride are bad ones. The intention to alleviate someone’s suffering is a good intention. The intention to inflict suffering is a bad intention. For an action to have moral worth, it must be well-motivated and well-intentioned. But this is not enough; it must also be wise. For example, the Buddhist argument against euthanasia is that, even if the practice is well-motivated (by compassion for the patient) and well-intentioned (aimed at ending the patient’s suffering), it is still a foolish practice because, in the round of saṃsāra, euthanasia simply postpones the patient’s suffering rather than ending it, and it may well make matters worse for the patient in his or her next life. The Buddha defined “karma” as an act of will, as the volition that lies behind an act of body, speech or mind. “It is will, O monks, that I call karma; having willed, one acts through body, speech or mind” (Aṅguttara 7 In connection with euthanasia, Peter Harvey writes that “To advocate death on the grounds of compassion would be seen [from a Buddhist standpoint] as an unwholesome act rooted in delusion, so that the compassion involved was unwise” (Ethics 296). He points out that “there is no guarantee that even a good person will have a pleasant rebirth in his or her next life” and that “if the suffering of a sick person is due to karma, then killing him or her is unlikely to end the suffering, as the karmically caused suffering will continue after death until its impetus is used up” (297). Not all scholars, I should mention, agree with this analysis. Rupert Gethin (178-185) argues that the basic Buddhist objection to euthanasia, at least from a Theravāda perspective, is that the practice is rooted in aversion rather than in delusion—specifically, aversion towards the patient’s suffering. He provides textual support for this, which is worth considering. But if it would be wrong for a physician to euthanize a patient because the act would be rooted in aversion to suffering, then it would be wrong for a physician to practice medicine at all for the same reason. 377 Journal of Buddhist Ethics Nikāya III 415). Whether an act is good or bad critically depends on what the agent wills to do. This seems to imply that to harm a sentient being unintentionally is not bad karma, even if the harm done is predictable. Peter Harvey cites as examples: crushing sugarcane “when one knows, or strongly suspects, that it contains worms” and “driving a car on a hot day when it is very likely that many insects will be killed” (Ethics 53). Many scholars accept this implication, and there is much in the canonical literature to support it. There is, for example, the Kurudhamma Jātaka, which, according to Harvey, emphasizes the idea that “unintended harm to others should not be counted against one, and it is not wise to agonize over such matters, such as a king who ceremonially fires arrows in the air, and losing track of one, worries it might have landed in a lake and killed a fish” (Intention 2). It is often observed that Buddhist ethics and Jain ethics, though they share much in common, differ in this crucial respect. According to Jainism, even unintentionally harming a sentient being, such as accidentally stepping on an insect, is bad karma. This analysis is plausible if it is taken to mean that the unintended but foreseeable consequences of an action have no bearing on whether the act is karmically bad (or bears bitter fruit). The Buddhist understanding of the metaphysics of karma and the mechanism by which karma comes to fruition differs significantly from that of Jainism. But is it plausible to say that the unintended but foreseeable consequences of an action have no bearing on whether the act is morally bad? Suppose I decide to practice archery in my backyard, even though my property borders a playground. If a child is struck and killed by a stray arrow, does this not “count against me” because it was not my intention to kill the 8 The word translated here as “will” is cetanā. According to Keown’s entry in A Dictionary of Buddhism, the term denotes “the conative psychological functions of intention, volition or motivation” (51). Hence, karma is understood as the act of intending or willing to bring about a certain result. Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 378 child? Suppose I repeatedly miss the target, killing one child after another. Would it be “unwise” for me to agonize over these unfortunate incidents? In sorting this out, we might begin by noting that Buddhist ethics, in a reversal of utilitarianism, does not say that an act is good or bad because it has good or bad consequences, but that an act has good or bad consequences (specifically, good or bad karmic consequences) because it is good or bad. The moral value or disvalue of an act depends upon the internal states of the agent, not upon the external consequences of the deed. It may be, then, that a harmful deed is karmically bad only if the harm done is intended (because of the mechanism by which karma, both good and bad, bears fruit); still the deed may be morally bad because of its inherent nature. Suppose that, in a celebratory mood, I fire my gun into the air, not taking into account that the bullet will eventually fall back to earth possibly injuring or killing someone. It may be that this possibility never occurred to me, in which case I am acting negligently, not bothering to take into account the possible consequences of my action. Or it may be that I am well aware of this possibility but fire my gun anyway. Clearly, I am doing something wrong, and I could not excuse my carelessness by saying that I did not intend to harm anyone. I am doing something wrong whether or not I intend to harm someone, and whether or not I actually do harm someone. 9 Some evidence that an action can be morally good or bad without correspondingly being karmically good or bad is provided by the Upāyakauśalya Sūtra, discussed by Williams (145) and Gethin (188-189). The sūtra relates the story of how the Buddha, in a previous life, killed a man to prevent him from murdering 500 others (themselves bodhisattvas), thus not only sparing these people their lives but also sparing the man rebirth in hell. This was a self-sacrificial act, and the Buddha was prepared to be reborn in hell for the crime. This did not come to pass, but the deed did bear bad fruit. Much later, the Buddha’s foot was pierced by a thorn, apparently as a karmic consequence (greatly attenuated, we are lead to think, by the Buddha’s vast store of merit). The Buddha’s conduct was meritorious, at least from a Mahāyāna perspective, and yet it bore bad fruit, implying that an action may be morally good even though it may be (in some respects, at least) karmically bad. 379 Journal of Buddhist Ethics In Jain ethics, the great vow of ahiṃsā is understood first and foremost as a commitment to carefulness (cf. Sharma). In fulfilling this vow, one takes whatever steps are necessary to avoid harming any sentient being, whether intentionally or unintentionally. By failing to do so, the vow is broken, whether or not any sentient being is actually harmed. Although Jain mendicants might take this to extremes—wearing hoods over their heads to avoid inhaling gnats—a commitment to carefulness seems to better capture the spirit of nonviolence than a mere commitment not to inflict intentional harm. There is some evidence that early Buddhists accepted this broader conception of nonviolence. Buddhist monks, following the example of Jains, often strained their drinking water to avoid ingesting small organisms (cf. Keown Ethics 15). The Buddha himself directed his monks, who routinely relocated, not to travel during the monsoon season so that they would not accidentally crush insects underfoot (cf. Chapple 54). Reckless behavior was also explicitly condemned (cf. Harvey Vinaya 276). One case mentioned in the canonical literature concerns a monk who sat on some rags, accidently killing a child lying underneath. Another case concerns monks throwing a stone down Vultures Peak, unintentionally killing someone below. In both cases, the judgment was that the monks were at fault. This broader conception of nonviolence—as a commitment to carefulness—is independently more plausible, especially within the context of virtue ethics. Suppose a physician can effectively treat a patient with one of two medications, X and Y. Both medications have bad side effects, but the side effects of X are much worse than those of Y. In the narrow conception of nonviolence, it is irrelevant whether the physician prescribes either X or Y, because the physician would not be acting with the intention of harming the patient. The foreseeable but unintended side effects of the medication have no bearing on how the physician’s Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 380 choice is to be evaluated. In the broad conception, however, these side effects should be taken into account. Clearly, it would be negligent for the physician to prescribe either medication without even bothering to consider its possible side effects. It would be grossly careless or callous for the physician to prescribe X knowing that its side effects are much worse than those of Y. In either case, the physician’s behavior would be morally bad and contrary to the principle of nonviolence, broadly understood. In general, actions describable as “reckless,” “negligent,” “careless,” or “callous” fall into this category. The Buddha urged us to radiate loving-kindness toward all sentient beings, and reckless, negligent, careless, or callous behavior is certainly antithetical to loving-kindness. Realistically speaking, no one can live a completely harmless life, but one can try to minimize the harm done. On the broad conception, a practitioner of nonviolence not only refrains from intentionally harming others, but also from causing excessive, gratuitous, or unnecessary harm. A good intention may excuse causing foreseeable harm (as when a physician prescribes a medication knowing that it will have bad side effects), but only when the harm done does not exceed what is necessary to bring about the good intended. This conception of nonviolence has important ethical implications concerning the practice of incapacitation. For example, it might be argued that the state is always justified in incarcerating violent offenders so long as this is done with the intention of protecting the public, and this is so even if such offenders could be incapacitated by means of electronic surveillance. This is true on the narrow conception of nonviolence, but not on the broad conception. Protecting the public is a good intention, but it does not excuse incarcerating offenders if public safety can be achieved by less harmful means. Another implication is that execution cannot be justified as a method of incapacitation, assuming that imprisonment is always an option. And even imprisonment under brutal 381 Journal of Buddhist Ethics and dehumanizing conditions, as is the current practice, is unjustified, given that these conditions are unnecessarily harmful. In general, a method of incapacitation is truly nonviolent only if it inflicts the least amount of harm necessary to incapacitate offenders. Understanding the Nature of Harm Good motives are typically paired with good intentions and bad motives with bad intentions. But is this always the case? According to one Buddhist text, the Ārya-satyaka-parivarta or “Noble Discourse of the Truth Teller,” a righteous ruler “with compassion should root out wicked people just as a father disciplines a son” (Harvey Ethics 348). As a parent, I might be motivated by compassion to punish my son. My immediate intention would be to make my son suffer; otherwise, the punishment would not be effective. But if I am motivated by compassion, my ultimate intention will be to benefit my son in some way. If I punish my son, am I acting with the intention to “harm” him in a sense that conflicts with the first precept? The simple answer is that my immediate intention is to harm him but my ultimate intention is to benefit him. But this answer is too simple. To harm someone is to make that person worse off than he or she would have been otherwise. Although I might harm my son in the short run, in the long run he might be better off. The question, then, is whether I “harm” my son in the relevant sense only if I make him worse off in the long run (on balance or all things considered). If so, then assuming that my son is, on balance, better off as a result of being punished, then I do not harm him (in the relevant sense) by punishing him. In fact, my action would be meritorious because it would be wellmotivated, well-intentioned, and wise. There are reasons for accepting this interpretation. Theravāda Buddhism characteristically regards the precepts as moral absolutes (cf. Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 382 King 73). It is said that arahats have internalized the precepts so completely that it is impossible for them to harm someone intentionally, to lie, to steal, or to break any other precept (cf. King 37). Mahāyāna Buddhism, on the other hand, notoriously allows for exceptions under the banner of “skillful means” (upāya-kauśalya). Yet even when exceptions are permitted, it is clear that the overarching aim is to benefit all sentient beings so that no one is ultimately harmed. To consider one important example, Asaṅga argues that the precepts may be violated—even the precept against killing—but only when the intention is to benefit all those affected. One of his examples concerns killing a robber who is about to commit mass murder: Accordingly, the bodhisattva may behold a robber or thief engaged in committing a great many deeds of immediate retribution, being about to murder many hundreds of magnificent beings—auditors, independent buddhas, and bodhisattvas—for the sake of a few material goods. Seeing it, he forms this thought in his mind: “If I take the life of this sentient being, I myself may be reborn as one of the creatures of hell. Better that I be reborn a creature of hell than that this living being, having committed a deed of immediate retribution, should go straight to hell.” With such an attitude the bodhisattva ascertains that the thought is virtuous or indeterminate and then, feeling constrained, with only a thought of mercy for the consequence, he takes the life of that living being. There is no fault, but a spread of much merit. (Tatz 70-71) The deed is meritorious because the bodhisattva, motivated by compassion and guided by wisdom, acts with the intention to benefit both the robber and his intended victims. Asaṅga does not permit utilitarian balancing—that is, harming one sentient being for the purpose of achieving 383 Journal of Buddhist Ethics a greater net benefit for others—or at least none of his examples suggests that he does. However, it would be too hasty to conclude that no Buddhist of historical stature permits it. Charles Goodman quotes Śāntideva who writes that a bodhisattva is at fault if “he does not cause small suffering and depression to arise as a way of preventing great suffering and depression” (90). Goodman interprets this as an endorsement of utilitarian balancing. But, as Goodman acknowledges, Śāntideva elsewhere specifically wishes to harm no sentient being. “Let there never be harm to anyone on account of me” (99). How are Śāntideva’s conflicting claims to be reconciled? One possibility is this. The bodhisattva vow is to ferry all sentient beings across the ocean of saṃsāra to the further shore of nirvāṇa, and some of the practices undertaken for the purpose of fulfilling this vow may harm sentient beings, but only in the short run. In the long run, one is able to benefit all sentient beings by becoming a bodhisattva. In the long run, then, all sentient beings are benefitted by one’s bodhisattva practices, which means that no one is ultimately harmed. If this is correct, then Śāntideva does not permit utilitarian balancing. The difference between Śāntideva and Asaṅga on this score is simply that Śāntideva adopts a more far-ranging perspective, taking into account the distant goal of liberating all sentient beings from the round of suffering. These considerations suggest, not only that it is always wrong to inflict intentional harm, but that to “harm” someone in the relevant sense is to make that person worse off in the long run (on balance or all things considered) than he or she would have been otherwise. This has two important implications concerning the ethics of punishment. One is that it is morally unacceptable to punish an offender as an end in itself or as a means to benefitting others, thus ruling out both retributivism and general deterrence. Another is that punishment may be acceptable when it is calculated to benefit the offender in the long run. This implies Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 384 that specific deterrence may be acceptable, assuming that offenders are, on balance, better off as a result of being successfully deterred from committing crimes. In assessing this possibility, it is important to distinguish specific deterrence from punitive rehabilitation (to be discussed shortly). The ultimate goal in both cases is the same: to prevent offenders from repeating their offences. The difference is that punitive rehabilitation accomplishes this goal by improving the character of an offender, whereas specific deterrence accomplishes this goal by instilling fear in an offender. Offenders are deterred from committing crimes because they fear punishment, and they fear this because they have firsthand experience of what it is like to be punished. The deterrence system is not designed to improve an offender’s character because there is no moral value in refraining from crime because one fears punishment. Fear, unlike love or compassion, is not a morally good motive and confers no moral value upon an action. According to Buddhism, virtuous character is the accumulated result of all the good deeds that we do, and good deeds must be well-motivated. It can certainly be wondered, then, how specific deterrence benefits offenders. Offenders are certainly harmed, at least in the short run. But if this leads to no moral improvement, how are they benefitted in the long run? It is better for other people if offenders do not repeat their crimes. But assuming that offenders refrain from crime for no reason other than fear, how are they better off? To say that offenders are better off because they won’t be punished again begs the question, for the problem is to explain how punishment is ever justified. 10 “Hold not a deed of little worth, thinking ‘this is little to me’. The falling of drops of water will in time fill a water-jar. Even so the wise man becomes full of good, although he gather it little by little” (Dhammapada 122). 385 Journal of Buddhist Ethics It might be argued, as Goodman (Ch. 9) does in his defense of specific deterrence, that wrongdoing has bad karmic consequences, and even if people refrain from wrongdoing only out of fear, they are still better off in the long run. One response, of course, is that we cannot take the doctrine of karma for granted, especially not if we wish to engage non-Buddhists in a constructive dialogue about the ethics of punishment. But considered independently of this doctrine, it is difficult to see how specific deterrence benefits offenders. Moreover, even if we grant the doctrine, it is by no means obvious that it does. Whether or not one’s bad karma comes to fruition depends upon one’s future choices. Bad karma can be diluted or altogether nullified (through the accumulation of merit), and so one cannot take it for granted that specific deterrence will have its intended effect. (It is significant that Asaṅga’s example of meritorious killing, mentioned earlier, concerns someone about to kill buddhas and bodhisattvas, something that, according to Buddhist orthodoxy, is an act of “immediate retribution” guaranteed to throw the offender into a hell realm. Murdering ordinary folk, like you and me, does not necessarily have this outcome, as illustrated by the tale of Aṅgulimāla.) Without assuming the doctrine of karma, it would seem that specific deterrence does not benefit but rather harms offenders, in which case it is not well-intentioned. Assuming the doctrine, specific deterrence may be well-intentioned, but foolish. In either case, it is indefensible within the framework of Buddhist ethics. Rehabilitation is commonly seen as an alternative to punishment, and this is how I have characterized it. But there are those who see rehabilitation as the goal of punishment. When parents punish their children, their usual intention is to help their children to become better 11 For further discussion of this last point, see Loy (149-151). 12 One further bit of evidence against Goodman’s defense of specific deterrence is provided by the Mahāparinibbaāna Suttanta, discussed by Saddhatissa (92-95). The text identifies four motives on which one should not act, one of which is fear (bhaya), including fear of punishment (daṇḍabhaya). Fink, Buddhism, Punishment, and Reconciliation 386 people in the long run by making them suffer in the short run. According to some philosophers, this is how society should view punishment. R. A. Duff argues that “punishment should be understood as a species of secular penance that aims not just to communicate censure but thereby to persuade offenders to repentance, self-reform, and reconciliation” (xviiixix). By making criminals suffer for what they have done, they appreciate the moral gravity of their crimes, experience remorse, and become better people. There is some support for this view in the Buddhist literature. The “Noble Discourse of the Truth Teller,” discussed by Peter Harvey (Ethics 347-348), portrays the righteous king as punishing the wicked for the purpose of reforming them. “In punishing people,” Harvey writes, commenting on the text, “his aim should be to convince them not to neglect their obligations so that they ‘might become good persons again’” (347). There is also the interesting story of Hariti, discussed by Charles Goodman (175-176). Hariti was a demonic figure notorious for kidnapping and killing small children. The Buddha, with a view to awakening in Hariti empathetic understanding, kidnapped one of her own children. Hariti, filled with rage, confronted the Buddha. According to Goodman, “The Buddha then pointed out that her feelings of rage and distress were just like those experienced by the human mothers whose children she had killed” (175). Now that she fully appreciated the moral gravity of her crimes, she was overcome with remorse and “accepted the Buddha’s request to cease her wicked deeds and become, instead, a divine protector of children” (175). The moral of the story is clear. If offenders are to empathize with their victims, they must understand what it is like to be treated as they have treated their victims. And one way in which offenders can be brought to understand this is by subjecting them to the same sort of treatment. “Eye for an eye” retribution can thus be seen as an effective means of awakening empathic understanding in offenders. 387 Journal of Buddhist Ethics Assuming that punitive rehabilitation benefits offenders in the long run, the argument can be made that the practice does not harm offenders in the relevant sense, and so does not conflict with the first precept. There is something to this argument, but, before passing judgment, there are three objections to be weighed in the balance. First, it is by no means obvious that punishment, especially “eye for an eye” retribution, will have its intended effect. Returning evil for evil may teach wrongdoers what it is like to be treated as they have treated their victims, but such treatment is just as likely to provoke resentment as it is empathetic understanding. Thus, punitive rehabilitation might be criticized as foolish. Second, it is by no means obvious that punishment is the only way to “get through” to some people. If there are non-punitive ways of communicating censure to offenders and persuading them to repent of their crimes, then punishment is unnecessarily or excessively harmful. Thus, punitive rehabilitation might be criticized as callous. Finally, it may be wondered whether the end justifies the means. If I learn that my wife has had an affair, would I be justified in brutalizing her as a way of communicating censure and persuading her to repent of her infidelity? Would I be justified in having an affair myself to awaken in her empathetic understanding? Are we justified in lying to liars, stealing from thieves, raping rapists, and torturing torturers so that we might help them to empathize with their victims? A Mahāyānist might condone such practices under the umbrella of “skillful means,” but this would seem to conflict with the core moral message of the Buddha: to conquer evil with goodness.